


is was will be

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [50]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Assisted Suicide, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canon Typical Violence, Don't worry, F/M, Hallucinations, Its not descriptive, M/M, Slime, Starvation, Troll Culture, Troll Molting, cause alternia, just general alternian unpleasantness, just general molting grossness, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its a struggle to surrender to your instincts. You don't want to. You’re so used to being the one in control and now its happening again. You’re losing yourself. </p><p>Takes place immediately after "the wrong way around".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: begin the transformation

It hurts. Everything fucking hurts. You can barely think straight as you move off the couch. Sounds blurs and so does your visions as you shuffle forward. Your first urge is to fight the instincts clouding your brain. You don’t want them in control. You don’t want to be backseat driver to your own body but this isn’t a battle you can win. You’re hardwire for it. For the _change._

Second by second, you’re losing yourself.

Mechanically, you march down the hall and enter a room. You hear yourself making foreign clicking noises. You scurry into the corner and curl into a ball, still clicking rhythmically.

You slide under the influence of your instincts, finally surrendering.

Its time.


	2. sermon under the mount

**== >Be the mutantblood diving in the refuse heaps**

Early evening is the best time to go searching through the refuse heaps. Time in the city has taught you that the most fashionable hives withhold the best treasures. Its amazing what the aristocracy throws away: food half eaten and clothes barely worn. You always go hunting in packs of four or more; two to dive and two to look out with rotation every night. Tonight it is Simham and Pollux diving and you and a cerulean on lookout. It has been a night since Sinann has left your group and still has not returned.

Pollux has never been fond of him and thinks he smells conspiracy. “How do we know he’s not an Imperial spy?” He is shifting through the refuse heaps, picking out what’s edible, what’s usable, and what’s not worth your time. You are scanning the alleyway for any sign of trouble. “We don’t even know where he came from or what his story is.”

“He talks to the teal.” and you immediately regret mentioning her because your vascular pump hurts. You long to learn her name.

“Oh yes. The _other_ mysterious highblood.” Pollux grunts.

You move from the refuse heaps, going to the end of the alley. Pollux isn’t one to be dissuaded and leaves the refuse heap. He trades places with your fellow watcher and goes over to you. “Still holding out hope she’ll somehow get miraculously better and flush you?”

You frown and don’t say anything. Pollux sighs and touches your shoulder. “Kankri,” he says, gently, “admit it. You’re flushsick for her.”

You glance at Simham out of the corner of your lookstub. She’s grumbling and scratching her heftsacks, possibly infested with lice again. You’ll have to schedule a bath for her before it spreads. “Flushsickness is not my concern. My worries are for my kin, not quadrants.”

“You’re going to molt soon.” says Pollux, “ _When the drone comes knocking, the daybed better be rocking._ ”

 _“I know.”_ You’d seen the slogan on signs posted in front of brothels and pailing motels. Stores selling to highblood couples boasted about their well made and leak-proof pails. Lowbloods could only afford the ones universities and conscription stations gave away free. “I have other concerns that to worry about pails.”

Pollux would’ve argued if you didn’t see Sinann returning to the alleyway with someone in a dark cloak. The guest wore large red glasses and a red shirt with the tealblood sigil. As they walked, they whispered and smiled at each other.

You withdraw more into the alleyway and the newcomer grins at you. “So you’re an adult, huh?” she says, “I thought you’d be a lot scarier. I heard even lowblood adults are terrifying.”

“If I was meant to terrify you, I would have already done it.” you say.

Simham growls, climbing out the refuse heap and showing her teeth. If the tealblood is intimidated, she’s not showing it.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Exploring!” comes the answer, upbeat and elusive.

You frown. The girl is only a few sweeps younger than you. “Does your lusus know you’re here?”

She sticks out her grey tongue. “None of your beeswax!”

 

 

“Beeswax?”

“Highblood slang for stingbeast excretions. Did I mention how much I _loathe_ children?” Pollux grumbles. “Who are you and _why_ are you bothering us?”

“I’m not that much younger than you, pizza-face.” You think that was an insult aimed at Pollux’s hormonal blemishes but you’re not sure. He seems irritated by it though. “Sinann brought me here to meet someone in the underground so I’m going. _And you can’t stop me_.” That last part was aimed at Pollux.

Simham and Pollux growl but you hold up your hand before they can do anything. “You’re here to meet _her_ , aren’t you?”

The younger tealblood blinks. “You know her?”

“Yes. I’ll take you to her.” Sinann fidgets and mumbles. He’s a nervous wriggler and you wish you could pat him on the head or use some other gesture of assurance, but he’s always shirked from touch. Its still taboo for adults to be in physical contact with children. “It’ll be fine, Sinann. Stay here and help the others forage.”

Sinann still looks nervous but the young tealblood is excited. You lead her to the underground through a hatch in the abandoned building nearby. It was supposed to be the entrance for the future transport tunnel. In the tunnels you light a sugarcane torch just for precaution and move quickly. The young teal is silent in the tunnels, as if she knows about the shadowdroppers.

When you come to the encampment, the young tealblood’s taken aback by the smell. She doesn’t say a word but her nose wrinkles. The smell isn’t pleasant but anything beats the stench of abandoned corpses left to rot in the sand wastes, but its been made worse by the tealblood’s condition. Her sickness has been worsening with the passing nights. You do all you can to make her comfortable through the seizures. You even placed a blanket over her lean-to to stifle some of the smell and afford her some dignity.

You feel so helpless. She’s dying and there’s nothing you can. You can teach the feral to speak. You can help the blinded, feed the hungry and protect those who can’t defend themselves but you can’t save someone you flush. You check on the tealblood before the younger one can look at her. You want to make sure she’s presentable to her descendant. You clean up the older tealblood as much as you can from her recent seizure and then proper her up.

“You can see her now.” You tell the young teal. “Keep it brief. She doesn’t have the energy she used to.”

The young teal nods and enters the lean to. You can tell she’s straining not to cover her nose or wince at the odor. The older tealblood’s watery eyes open and she weakly smiles. “Hello descendant.”

You sit outside of the lean to, making sure they have their private moment between ancestor and descendant.

 

You’re in a haze of pain, laying on the ground and curled into a ball. There’s the hum of voices nearby but you can’t see who they belong to or where you are. Your vision is that of a thick orange-red film; gooey and rippled.

“Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” asks one, “I’ve been trying to talk to him and he’s not responding.”

“Well, he did respond…just with a growl.” says another.

“During the molt, the higher functions of the troll brain go to sleep and most of the body’s energy goes toward molting: pain management as bones extend, new teeth and horns grow in.” The third voice sounds deeper. Another adult? You don’t smell one but you emit a growl just to be safe.

“He’s growling again…” says the second voice, warily.

You interrupt your growling when you cough and spit out more hard stubs. Your mouth aches.

“Ew. Okay. I have to. Leave. Like, now.” says the second, followed by quick footsteps.

“Should we give him food? Or water?” asks the first. “Or at least clean up the teeth he’s spitting out…?”

“Its not a good idea to go near him.” says the third, “He might think you’re prey or an enemy.”

“So what are we supposed to do? We can’t just leave him in the storage room.”  

“He’ll be fine. Nature’s prepared Karkat for this.” the third insists, “You just have to give him space. A cocoon will form and he’ll come out in a few days.”

The voices fade and you slip back into your…memories? Dreams? You don’t know anymore. Everything hurts and the world is wobbly and disfigured with light and sound.

 

You are back in the old transport tunnel, guarding the old tealblood’s lean-to. You’re also eavesdropping but only because you want to learn more about the tealblood.  

“I would have contacted you myself but my body is failing me, as I’m sure you can tell…” says the old tealblood, “…I’m surprised he knew you…”

“I used to go to primary schoolhive with Sinann,” replies the descendant, “before his ancestor was disgraced and some of the higher bloods forced him out of the city. Last I heard, he was in the wastes. I assumed he had died but then he returned. I was so happy to see him and then he said you wanted to meet me, so I came here.”

A hacking cough from the old tealblood. You hear her spit and then sputter, “I wanted to apologize to you. I know my actions have made life difficult and have invoked a three-way feud between the lines of Pyrope, Whelan, and Serket.”

“I know. The only reason I wasn’t exiled like Sinann was because I culled one of the local Serkets before they could get me. I’m sure one of the others will have it out for me now.”

“Serkets are true arachnids. Remove one limb and it will grow back. And they never forget who hurts them.”  A haggard inhaling and then exhaling. “You know what I’m going to ask of you?”

“Yes.” The younger one pauses. “Will you tell me your name?”

“When I was a legislacerator I was Adequate Witwound. Now, I’m just Terazi Pyrope. My matesprit was Iceglare, a powerful psionic. I conspired with Executor Veerfish to help those who were enslaved like my matesprit by secretly funding rebellions and protests…but my kismesis Mindmark Serket betrayed us for riches and more power. My collaborators are dead and only I survived...”

“I should cull _everyone_ in the Serket line before they have a chance to pail.” says the younger, darkly.  

“That won’t improve this situation.” rasps the older one. “I wish for my vengeance to be in my continued work. I want my goals not to be forgotten. I want to see life improve for all lowbloods. I know it’s a lot to ask of you…”

The older tealblood’s voice quieted and you can’t distinguish her murmurs. There’s a choking noise and then silence. You don’t turn around as the younger tealblood comes out of the lean-to, holding a bloodied knife.

“She’s dead.” she announces.

You should have known this would happen. It’s the way of descendants to cull their ancestors; the final mercy that you even promised for Mother. Still, your digestive sack tightens. “ _Oh_.” you say, your voice quavering. “She was sick. For a long time. Mother said that…that her insides had been torn up and she had seizures all the time so…so I guess it was…” Gods, what are you blathering about? Your thinkpan is throbbing.

The young tealblood sits next to you. “Did you like her?”

She puts it so childishly but it still embarrassed you. “I wouldn’t say that.” you lie, “I...respected her. I honor her death. I honor anyone who would fight for equality.”

“She seemed nice.” the young tealblood smiles. “Savari.”

“Hm?”

“My name. Its Savari Pyrope. I’m going to be a legislacerator, just like her.”

“Kankri.” You sound so tired and defeated.

Savari looks at the lean-to. “We can’t just leave her in there.”

“No. We should burn the remains.” Sometimes you turned your deceased comrades into jerky but anything derived from Terazi’s remains ran the risk of serious illness.

Savari pauses and then asks, “Is it alright if I take her left arm?”

“You’re her descendant. You have a right to do whatever you want.” Your digestive sack is squeamish but you ignore it. You get out your sickle and walk into the lean-to. “Let me get it for you.”

“You don’t have to do that...I have a knife.” Savari sounds sympathetic. Even she can see how you felt about the old teal.

“I don’t mind.” You lie again.

You look at the corpse of Terazi Pyrope. Savari had cut her ancestor’s throat and the wound is thick with lumps of congealed blood. The smell coming from her had only grown stronger but she’s not even turning pale or spotting with _livor mortis_. She looks like she could open her eyes and give you one of her strained smiles but no. She’s dead. Highbloods just decompose slower.

You’re numb as you cut off her left arm, wrap it in rags, and give it to Savari. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I have something in mind.” answers Savari. “What will you do with the body?”

“We’ll do what we will.” You turn your back to her. “You should go now. Sinann will show you the way back.”

“I know.”

Savari doesn’t stay long. Mother, Pollux, and Simham walk over to you, express their sympathies, but you shrug them off. You let the others deal with the body and go to your lean-to. You climb on a pile of musty rags. A blanket hanging over the entrance blocks some of the light and sounds so you can sleep.

You wake up to someone tugging your hair. Simham looks down at you, which is fitting as she’s the only one who can sneak up on you. “What do you want?” you grumble, not moving from the pile.

“Your girlfriend’s dead. Are you going to mope all night about it?”   

You sit up. “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“You wish she was.”

You growl, showing your teeth, “I’m not in a mood for your caliginousness or whatever. _Leave_.”

“I could be just as important...” Simham growls.

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“I could be someone just as important to you!” Simham repeats, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed olive, “I could be someone just like her! Even better!”

“I wasn’t involved with her!”

“You would if you could! If she said ‘yes’, you would’ve done it in a vascular pump throb!”

“I don’t see you that way! You’re confusing!”

“You’re the confusing one! You’re confusing and I’m tired of being ignored!”

“Stop being a wriggler!”

“No, _you_!”

She bites your shoulder, right where the shadowdropper wounded you. You snarl and dig your claws into her arm. You struggle with her, threatening to destroy your lean-to. Despite your loud fighting the others are ignoring you. Its as if they expect you to take your grief out on something. When you’re both scratched and bleeding, Simham relents and lies on the mound of rags, chest heaving in exhaustion. You gaze into her in lookstubs, which are turning olive with impending adolescence.

“Do you hate me?” you ask.

“No.” she admits.

“I don’t hate you either.” You swallow, “So…what do you want? We have to pick one, or the other.”

“Why?”

You don’t know the answer but you kiss her—too tender for caliginous and too rough for concupiscent. You lay next to her and hold her close because there’s nothing else you can do. “One night, we’ll have a proper hive without fear.” you say.

“You can’t promise me that.” Simham says, “I may be a lot of things but I’m not stupid.”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to leave for the sand wastes after dark season. I want to stay amongst civilization and improve things for my kin.”

Simham blinks. She’s not sure about this but she nods. “Whatever you do…I’ll follow you.”

“You can barely stand me.”

Simham smiles wryly and takes your hand, moving it to her heftsack. “Sometimes I can’t but other times you’re tolerable. Like now.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks and you inhale sharply. Its not like pailing is a secret in the tunnels, but you hesitate. “H-here…? But we…don’t have a pail.”

“Can’t we do it without one?”

“No!” You may be a sand waste bumpkin but certain things are still forbidden. “People don’t _do_ that.” you add in a whisper.

“Pollux and Kanaya do.” Simham says, unimpressed by your embarrassment.

You’re not surprised Pollux does something so obscene. “Who is Kanaya?”

“Your mother. Her name is Kanaya Maryam.”

Your jaw slackens. “ _What_.”

“Seriously?”

“Well people always call their lusii ‘Spidermother’ and ‘Dragonfather’! I assumed it was just ‘Mother’ for Mother!” You say, flustered.

“And you _never_ questioned why she’d send us out on errands and Pollux would stay behind? Or them disappearing from time to time?”

“Pollux would have told me that! Or Mother! Why would he. They.” The thought of Pollux pailing your mother in such an obscene way doesn’t sit right with you. _“Ew.”_ is the only word you can think of.

“So people _do_ do that.” Simham says, making her point.

“Not me. If I’m going to do it, I’d rather be proper about it.” You say, discouraging that train of thought.

Simham tilts her head. “Do you even know which pail we would use?”

You don’t. “We’ll figure it out.”

Simham’s not happy with the response but she doesn’t leave your side.  

 

You surface from the dream again and your skin feels slick and hard. You can barely move and it feels like you’re breathing through cheesecloth. You try to call for help but all that comes out is a whimper of pain. Outside of the viscous veil, you hear voices.  

“What’s that ooze coming out of him?” asks the first voice.

“It’s the start of the cocoon.” says another, “It has the same properties of sopor and allows trolls to sleep through the final molt. He’ll keep oozing and then the casing will harden.”

“Where’s all that ooze coming out…?” mutters a third voice.

“Orifices.” says the second, vague.

There’s a pause before the first mutters, “Well, _those_ clothes are ruined forever.”

The tone pushes a thought forward: _Shut the fuck up Strider._ That’s his name. Strider. You can’t wait to hit him in the face. You get swept back into the memory, thinking of punching him.


	3. surfacing from the underground

Time passes slowly during dark season. Food is easy to find in the crowded seaside city so you can focus less on foraging and more on preaching. You speak to other lowbloods in the marketplaces, in the vacant lots of communal hivestems, in the fish markets, and any place they will listen. Sometimes you are booed or hissed at. Once you had rotten fruit and vegetables thrown at you but for every failure, there are three more victories. Your band of exiles is joined by more followers who have abandoned their worldly possessions to follow you.

In the company of good kin and hemospectrum harmony, Twelfth Perigee Eve is magical. The city has a rancorous festival which means there’s more abandoned food than usual, so you all eat well. For once, the fear of being culled is alleviated and your kin enjoy themselves. For a gift, Pollux gives you two pails. In your perigees together, neither Simham nor you know what your quadrant is. You choose red this time and have at it in the less crowded tunnels while the others are celebrating.

“Do you know what they’re calling me now?” Simham says, when you’ve regained enough energy to talk again. “Your Disciple, because I’m always with you.”

“You’re more to me than just a follower.” You say.

“I like the ring of it, to be honest.” Simham smiles, “We’re not matesprits or kismesis. Maybe we should go by titles like real adults?”

After your first pailing session, you _were_ considered an adult. “Maybe its time.” You stand. “I’m going to join the others. Are you going to stay here?”

“ _Yes_.” Simham, your Disciple, snorts and gathers her clothes. “Everyone’s so noisy during Twelfth Perigee Eve. I’ll be happy when its over.” She tousles her hair, shaking it out for lice. “How much longer until its warm again?”

“Sixth dark is over after Twelfth Perigee Eve, but first dim is always rather chilly until the equinox. We have sixteen more nights of cold.” You smile, moving hair from in front of her face. “Do you miss the wastelands that much?”

She sticks out her tongue. “I miss having space and not being buried in _garbage_.”

You did miss the open space of the sand wastes. “If I was not concerned for the welfare of those in the city, I would move out to the mountains and enjoy a calm life with you, Mother, and Pollux. Maybe become malenders or a backmenn.”

Simham smirks. “Oh _yeah_ right. Like we’re made out for the quiet life of farming or baking.”

You sigh. She’s right. Lowbloods who live a quiet life rarely cause revolutionary social change. You return to the encampment and find Pollux and the others gathered around the fire, singing Twelfth Perigee carols. You have no interest in singing so you sit under a gutter and watch the twin moonlight through the iron bars high above.

Sinann walks over to you. Since Savari’s visit, he’s been more talkative. “I’m leaving.” He says, which are the first words he’s ever said to you.

“For where? You’ve been with us for sweeps.”

“I was only with you by accident,” says Sinann, “and I came here by accident. But seeing Savari again has made me realize I left a lot undone. So I’m going to pick up where my ancestor left off.”

“Should you really commit yourself to continuing their work? Why not live your own life?”

Sinann shakes his head. “I appreciate what you say but I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be safe staying with Savari.” You raise your eyebrow and he blushes. “As her _friend_.”

“ _Sure_.” You chuckle, “Take care, Sinann.”

Sinann nods. “I won’t forget you or what I’ve learned from your teachings. If it weren’t for your help, I would have perished, so I will forever be grateful to you. If you ever need help, seek me out.”

“Thank you for that.”

Sinann scurries off then. You hear the echo of his footsteps as he clamors to the surface, seeking adulthood and respect for the mistakes of the past.

And what of your future? The gallows are proof that most causes for change end poorly. Even knowing that, you won’t be shaken from your path. You know what your purpose is and to stray from it would be denying who you are.

 

The pain is dull now. You feel your joints shift and limbs elongating. What will you look like when the surface cracks? Will you be the same or will you have become your grandfather?

 

After Twelfth Perigee Eve, the highbloods in the seaside city have noticed a change in the lowblood locals. They no longer walk with their eyes to the ground or move quickly out of their way. The highbloods are less than pleased. During one of your preaching sessions in the fish market, a group of young nobles decide to make an example of you. They dispersed your listeners with tear gas and fire-hoses. Your followers aren’t in a cowering mood though and attack back with rocks, mud, fish entrails and bones. Things spiraled out of your control and once you saw a stone hit a noble and cold blood drip down their face, you knew it was time to retreat. An injured noble was like a cornered serpent; they lashed out at everyone.

Pollux, your Disciple, Mother, yourself, and everyone in your vicinity escaped from the fish market back to the underground. The belhostes in the district were sympathetic to your cause and allowed you to cut through one of their taverns. You made your way to a manhole cover in the back alley and escaped. The route was long but worth the safety.

At your underground encampment, Mother and you help those affected by the tear gas. Your Disciple soldiers through the pain of her infected sinuses. Your eyes are swollen and itchy but you’re not discouraged. You consider it your first trial by fire.

Mother wants you to stop preaching for a short while and to stay underground, but you refuse. Pollux is annoyed but he agrees that hiding will only make things worse. You two may disagree but he’s sworn to protect you. So you continue your preaching and rotate the location as often as possible.

You settle into a routine that isn’t interrupted until the first bilunar perigee of the third dim season. When your group returns to the abandoned building leading to the underground, there is a sign. Mother has to translate the formal characters for the rest of you.

“It says the property of the Pasquale-Octavius Transportation Tunnel is up for auction and the bidding will begin in a week.” Mother frowns. “This doesn’t bode well.”

In the encampment, your followers fear the worst. They’ve heard rumblings about the city council building up the slum district where the lowbloods are densely populated. They were hoping to turn it into an entertainment district and attract tourism.

“They’re gentrifying the place so we can’t afford to live here.” sighs a sapphireblood, “Soon you’ll see coldblood only stores and taverns and brothels popping up. We may as well find another place to stay.”

“Let’s not panic.” You say, “It all depends on who purchases the land. They tried to build down here before and the money was embezzled away. It may happen again.”

You do not want to leave the underground though. It may not be very clean and springtime rain was turning everything soggy, but it was close to a food source and easy to access. Your Disciple and you have even built up your shared lean-to with abandoned materials. Its your home now.

Still, you can’t sway the winds of change. Your kin and you wait and keep your auricular sponge clots to the ground. Preaching has become more dangerous as some nobles have hired ruffiannhilators. As for the impending construction, your predictions were correct. There’s a lot of talk about reconstruction and maintaining the city but very little gets done.

After the third dim season’s equinox, you molt into adulthood. Its awkward at first being so tall but you adjust to it.

Late into the fourth dim season, Sinann visits you. The perigees have changed him from a frightful boy to a tall, friendly young man. You’re happy to see him but he’s not visiting you out of the goodness of his vascular pump.

“You have trouble coming your way.” Sinann says, “A noble has purchased this property and he plans on forcing all of you out. Violently. Preferably with you missing limbs or eyes, erm, _lookstubs_.”

“What for? We will peacefully leave if he wishes so.” you growl. “I’ve done nothing to offend this man. I preach and rouse the spirits of those society would beat and trample no better than musclebeast excrement.”

“That’s the problem, Kankri.” Sinann sighs. “Those beaten down trolls would’ve been his customers, drowning their sorrows in drugs or gambling. Your preaching as put a crimp in his business and he’s not the only one. So now you have to leave before you’re strung up in the gallows. Now.”

“How can I do that?” You gesture to those around you. “We can’t all quickly move together. What guarantee do I have that we’ll be allowed to move safely?”

Sinann frowns. “I don’t know, Kankri. I would suggest that you disband.”

“ _Disband?”_

“Its for your own safety. I believe in your words but you can’t spread them if you’re dead.”

“I will not allow myself or my followers to be _bullied_ by some fancyman and his cronies who make their caegars off the miseries of _my_ kin!” you snarl.

“I know, Kankri,” Sinann sighs, “but this isn’t a battle you can fight.” He looks at Pollux, “You’re the Psionic aren’t you?”

“Excuse me…?” Pollux mutters.

“You’re an impressive psionic, yes?” Sinann smiles. “If you had a ship, you could easily power it. You could go across the sea to the eastern continent, where you’d be safe.”

Pollux says nothing but his face colors. You roll your eyes at the fantastical scenario Sinann presents. “And where are we supposed to _get_ a ship? There’s not a caegar between all the trolls here.”

“I think a friend of mine can give you a ship. It won’t be new but it _should_ fly.” Sinann looks at Pollux again, “Pending that we have the Psionic.”

Pollux smiles, showing his crowded teeth. “When do we leave this dump?”

“I’m sure I can arrange that you leave at tomorrow’s nightbreak.” Sinann says, “If we’re quick, those hired ruffiannhilators should still be occupied at taverns and brothels.”

“I haven’t agreed to any of this, Pollux.” You look at the yellowblood. “We don’t even know how big this ship is. It might not fit everyone.”

Pollux shrugs. “Those are the breaks, Kankri. We have to cut our losses at some point.”

“I’m ready to move on.” your Disciple says.

“You too?” you grumble.

“Kankri, this city isn’t safe for us anymore.” Mother says, “You saw what happened last night when those nobles came into the tavern you were preaching in. They almost burnt the place down. We’re lucky that Pollux flung their cutlery back at them so we could make our escape.”

“I’m sure they culled the belhoste.” Pollux says. You glare at him. “I mean _murdered_ , but Kankri the point is that its only a matter of time before an unruly mob comes after you.”

“And the rains are getting heavier too.” your Disciple says, “I’m scared the tunnels will flood if there’s a storm. I say we move on. There’s other trolls who need your help.”

They all make valid points and you’re no dictator. You want what’s best for everyone. “We’ll leave but we must do so covertly.” you tell Sinann.

Sinann nods. “These tunnels are long but they end some miles before the shoreline begins. The best plan is to go as far south as you can and come out at the border of the fish market, where the industrial zone starts. I bought property there and I’m managing a fishing company. Nothing too large but I can have your group discreetly moved in barrels. While the nobles will be coming to the underground for your blood and your nugbone on a nutrition plateau, you’ll be miles away at sea.”

It’s a risky plan, so you talk it over with your congregation. The older ones hesitate to move or don’t trust Sinann. He may be minor sea-nobility and an exile but he’s _still_ nobility. Half of them agree to follow while the others decide to relocate within the city or nearby communities, promising to continue preaching your beliefs.

An unknown ominous feeling hangs over you. It radiates not from Sinann but this entire situation. In your drafty shack, you speak privately with your Disciple, Mother, and Pollux.

“I can’t explain it.” You say, “I trust Sinann but I’m not sure of this third party and not just because I haven’t met them. Its something I can’t explain. A foreboding.”

“Trusted or not,” says Pollux, “if this third party can provide us with a ship, we can quickly get away. Plus, what other options do we have?”

Few and far between, but you glare at the yellowblood. “You just like that Sinann buttered you up. Going after another quad, huh?”

Pollux’s face yellows and he folds his arms, “I just like how he talked to me. He didn’t call me _battery_ or _pilot_. He treated me like a troll and I liked what he called me: _the Psionic._ Like I was…unique.”

“Like a sideshow spectacle.” You grunt.

Pollux is a little too enamored of the name. He likes the idea of being the special little insect in the swarm. You try not to concern yourself with your moirail’s questionable choices in titles.

You focus on preparation for the journey ahead; storing nutrition cylinders in your rucksacks and make sugarcane torches. When you’re prepared, your group starts the journey through the more desolate tunnels. Your Disciple leads you, holding a sugarcane torch. The shadowdroppers are wary of you after a whole season of slaying them so you have few incidents along your way.

You rest briefly and wake at nightbreak. You climb through a manhole onto the street. The open air of the city’s industrial district is warm and briny but you pay it no mind. Your collective attentions have been seized by a bright light in the north.

“The sun?” asks your Disciple.

“It just went down.” says Mother.

You catch a whiff of smoke blowing your way.

“ _Fire_.” the Psionic hisses.

Judging by the distance, the fire had started near the abandoned buildings and questionable taverns that led to the underground. Dismay fluid fills your lookstubs and you turn from the sight and smell of burning bodies; the sound of your friends and associates terrorized. Your group quickly rushes to the warehouse Sinann had described: Whelan Fishing Industries.

Inside the factory, Sinann is waiting. He ushers you onto a large fishing boat, the surface of which is still slick with the entrails of gutted fish. Below deck you cram into barrels that are supposed to contain sardines and Sinann shuts the lid. You’re thankful for the small holes on the top that are supposed to let the noxious air of decaying fish out (“To prevent explosions.” Sinann explains. You _really_ hope that doesn’t happen elsewhere)

“Kankri.” you hear your Disciple’s echoing voice in the barrel next to you.

“Yes?”

“I’m…scared. I don’t like small spaces.” Her voice is quavering in an unusual way.

“It’ll be alright, Simham. I’m here. Just…think of open spaces.”

“Quiet.” Sinann whispers, “We can’t let the other workers know there’s anything unusual about this delivery. I’ll let you when its safe to come out.”

You’re silent then. You fall asleep, hearing the ocean and smelling decayed fish. There’s a loud _clunk_ and you feel yourself travelling down. The movement suddenly stops and you hear a voice.

“Is this them?” says a bright, unknown voice.

“Yes,” says Sinann, “there are patrols set up all over the ports looking for fleeing lowbloods, so I had to smuggle them out in this.”

“Well you could have chosen a better smelling method but it’ll do.” says the other voice, “What are you waiting for? Get them out!”

Sinann taps the top of your barrel. “Its alright now.”

You come out of the barrel and the silver shine of the room hurts your eyes. Everything is decorated with silver—silver mirrors, silver chairs, and before you is a young seatroll with a silver tiara on their head, silver jewelry, necklaces and bangles. They even had a silver cape pinned in place with a magenta jewel. Tyrian. This is an imperial and your previous ominous feelings make too much sense.

They’re not attacking you though. They sit on a throne partially submerged in water. They’re grinning even though you’re crouched on the ground. “No need to cower, Signless. This isn’t a public culling. You’re welcome to the home of the Heir Apparent!”

 

 

You cautiously rise to your feet. Is _this_ Sinann’s contact? The others come out of the barrels and make their fear and confusion just as apparent.

The Heir nods to Sinann, who stands at the door. “Thank you for bringing them, Whelan. I’ll see your bloodline’s honor restored. Now leave.”

Sinann nods, gives you one last look, and then leaves the block. You look at the Heir and say, as politely as possible, “It is an honor to meet you, sir. I never knew my words reached such far off and finned ears.”

“Well they did.” The Heir chuckles. “This is a seasonal home for me, previously owned by the others ones. You won’t believe the redecorating I had to do.”

By _‘the other ones’_ he must mean the other heirs that were killed during the Ascension Ceremony. You can guess his interests by the wizard statues, the caged land animals, and the dead stuffed sea-beasts. “Its very _you,_ majesty.” you say, neutrally.

“ _Please_ , Signless One!” laughs the royal, “‘Your majesty’ is so very formal. _‘Lord Dmitry Peixes’_ will do just fine. I think it has a better ring to it.”

“It certainly does, Lord Peixes.” you say.

“Signless One,” the tyrian stands and steps out of the pool, approaching you. “I’m sure you’re thinking ‘What am I doing here?’ and ‘What could the Heir want with me?’.” At his approach, you realize Lord Peixes is actually much shorter than you. He is still young but wields an adult’s power. “Well, if you must know: I tire of this constant worship of the Condesce and her kangaroo court of death and those _obnoxious_ filthy clowns. Uncivilized barbarians! _All of them._ Surely, you must hate them all.”

Your main concerns are if this child really believes in your teachings and if you have a chance of escape if you say the wrong thing. The block is small and there’s only a single door for escape, which is likely to be guarded. Even though he’s not holding a 2xdent, you can’t rule out he has a weapon on him.

“Hate is a very strong word.” you say. You hate the Condesce’s methods but you can’t see anyone but a strong tyrian controlling the purpleblood army. “I just feel that—”

“The old must give away to the ways of the young.” Lord Peixes says, “One day I must be Emperor but that’s not going to happen if I go the normal route. Your preaching is beneficial so we must help each other. And even if premature death happens, your legacy shall not be forgotten.” He grins, “Do you agree?”

What does he mean by not going ‘the normal route’? Does he mean…usurpation? It may be his only route since there’s no way this wriggler can overpower the Condesce on Ascension. “The Condesce will smell rebellion in the wind. Its why she’s survived for so long.”

“Oh _her_?” Lord Peixes laughs, “She’s off-planet working on a project so I’m in charge.”

You’re more curious about the secret project than you are talking to this teen royal but Lord Peixes walks past you, toward the door. “Now! Follow me and I’ll take you to your vessel. The First Ship of the Signless One.”

Your Disciple looks at you and you both know that this Lord Peixes is not a believer. He’s a user; someone to flaunt your words for his own gain. You look at the caged beasts and imagine the lowbloods this young one will cage for fun during _his_ reign of tyranny. Now is not the time for rebellion though. You need him if you want to escape the gallows for now. You swallow your better judgment and nod, following him outside the block with your flock.

His hive is half submerged so you take a mechanical lift to the top where your vessel is waiting. Its an old unexceptional ship fitted for long voyages at sea. Lord Peixes talks about it at length. It was one of his first ships and can dive underwater to evade enemies waiting above and gets good flight time. The only thing it can’t do is space travel. Your followers are impressed with the ship but you’re more concerned about why Lord Peixes is giving it away. You don’t get your answer until you enter the ship and go to the cockpit. It stinks of dried blood and burnt hair. There are shadowy smears on the tendrils in the helmsman’s area that you realize are ash. The previous helmsman didn’t just burn out. They were obliterated, frayed apart at the atomic level. You look at Pollux but he pretends not to notice. He may already be conditioned to the untrollian dangers of piloting. Mother helps him into the helmsman’s seat and straps him in with care. The lift-off is rough but the rest of the flying is smooth. Pollux has enough psionic power to maintain the ship and still chat with the rest of you. Afterward he’s barely exhausted.

 

The pain is fading. It feels like you’re dissolving and your thinkpan—no, your mind—is waterlogged. Who are you? Are you the Signless transforming in the cocoon into an adult? Are you Karkat, struggling through a difficult molt?

Who are you?


	4. vascular pump of darkness

Over the next sweep, you see so much of your world: the cold icy tundra and ruins of the north, the watery streets and half-sunken cities of the east, the arid deserts and strange flora of the far south, and the windy mountains and colossal farms of the west. You walk in the light of lowblood shantytowns and the shadows of highblood suburbia. You speak with those who live in the midbloods railway cities, the rustic hill towns, and the mixed artesian communities, where all are equal in poverty and creativity. In these neighborhoods across the planet, you understand that the hemospectrum is not a prejudiced triangle with the fuchsiabloods on top but a harmonious circle.

 

 

The sweep transforms you all. You walk and talk with new experiences and enlightenments. Even Pollux’s rough edges have been chipped away and he fully dedicates himself to the cause and Mother’s fears are smoothing over. The First Ship is celebrated, welcomed by those who believe in your ever-growing popularity. The popularity which has earned you an imperial bounty. You’ve only evaded capture because you travel in an old nondescript ship and bounty hunters because the highbloods always underestimated you. You can’t keep moving forever though. Sooner or later there will be a worthy confrontation, but your visions tell you not when it will come or who it shall be. Lately, they have been cloudy. You don’t know what it means but you maintain an outward calmness.

The Psionic has other thoughts. “Pailing season is starting at the next equinox.” He says when you sit in the cockpit with him. “We’ve been molted adults for a sweep now so the drones will seek us out, even here. Kankri, you have no matesprit or kismesis. I know Simham and you are doing that permanent vacillation thing and that’s well and good but I’d rather _not_ have the leader of our cause be killed by an imperial drone.”

Times may change but being killed by the imperial drone will always be an embarrassing death. “My Disciple and I have chosen love beyond quadrants. Its not our fault that the drone isn’t willing to accept two buckets of the same material.” You roll your eyes. “As if it _won’t_ be going to the same place.”

The Psionic sighs, “Kankri, be reasonable. Do you _really_ want the saga of the Signless One to end with ‘Culled because he didn’t have pitch sex’?”

“It’s the _principle_ of the matter, Pollux!” you say, stubbornly. “What kind of leader will I be if I don’t practice what I preach?”

“Drones aren’t immortal.” says your Disciple, entering the cockpit. “We could kill the one that comes for us and hide until pailing season is over.”

“Are you _shithive maggots_ , woman?” the Psionic says, “Those things are dangerous and strong as fuck! I’m not getting on the bad side of an imperial drone just because you two keep _vacillating_!”

“Arguing isn’t going to change anyone’s mind.” Mother says, entering the cockpit and shutting the door behind her.

“Were you two eavesdropping…?” you mutter.

“Yes.” Mother folds her arms, “Simham is right. The imperial drones are not immortal. They are actually not that different from us, being hatched from the unfertilized eggs of the Mother Grub. They have a tough outer exoskeleton and no sexual parts, but there are gaps in-between the hardened carapace. Stick a sharp object between those gaps and you can get at its organs and kill it.”

“How do you know this…?” the Psionic mutters.

Mother’s expression hardens. “How do you think I escaped the Mother Grub’s birthing catacombs? The Mother Grub jealously guards her broodmas and keeps them tame under the violent threat of her psionically controlled drones. I challenged the drones and ran into the wastes rather than be a slave for the rest of my lifespan.” Her expression softens again and she smiles, “That’s how I found you, darling. I was hiding in an abandoned fortress and I found you wandering around as a grub. You were alone and I knew no lusus would take you, so I took care of you.”

“So the drones are not immortal.” your Disciple emphasized, “We can take them.”

“You can take one, but not a whole swarm.” Mother corrects, “If you kill one, expect three more to come after you in its place. The drones are a group mind. As for you, Kankri, pailing season is a time of rest. Even our mobile enemies will be grounded. Perhaps you should seek a kismesis for hire? The drones won’t care as long as the secondary pail contribution is the different in the two buckets.”

“I’m not using a whore, Mother.” You growl, “I refuse to participate in an exploitative industry that makes it money off the miseries—”

“Alright, Kankri. _Alright_.” Mother says, “What about a temporary one or…” She looks at the Psionic.

The Psionic glares at her. “No fucking way, Kanaya.”

“You two bicker often is what I’m saying.” Mother says.

“He’s my moirail!” you protest, offended.

“The drone doesn’t know that. You’re not the first moirails to pail to keep the other alive,” Mother says, “and the drones don’t know the difference.”

“No. _No_. _No_!”

You shun the idea. You shun it hard for as long as possible so the others drop t. You hate the idea so much you could be pitch for it. Perigees pass and finally—when you are alone with your thoughts in your respiteblock—you realize that failing to fill your pail could result in your kin being hurt by the rampaging drones and they would lose their leader. Its selfish not to make small sacrifices to keep others safe. Embarrassed by your previous behavior, you discreetly leave your respiteblock for the Psionic’s in the early evening.

The Psionic answers the door, sticky with sopor and yawning. “You got me out of the coon early, KK. What is it?”

“Shut up and…” Gods, you can’t believe you’re saying this, “…get the bucket.”

The Psionic looks at you and sighs. “Come in.”

Getting the pail session going is easier said than done. The warm fury of hatred isn’t there and as more time passes, you become more uneasy. Its almost dusk when the Psionic says, jokingly, “Who knew pailing was so hard? Usually its easy when you’re a yellow.”

You’re not in a joking mood. You’re on edge and its putting you off romance. “Like you and Mother?”

The Psionic flushes. “That’s different! And it was only like, only when the heat cycle hit me really hard. Would you rather I hump you or Simham?”

“Its weird!”

“How is it ‘weird’? She’s a troll too.”

“Ew. No. _Gross_.” You shake your head.

“You’re being the weird one. Its normal that older trolls to have someone younger in their quads.” He smirks. “We bring something new to the experience.”

“I know that but she’s like my lusus and—”

You hear a howling; a blaring sound that rattles your exoskeleton. It’s the cry of the imperial drone. You’ve heard it so many times before but it has never sounded so close and frightening.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” You say, “We’re not ready. This was a stupid idea. I should have known it wouldn’t work. I see your face and it just…it wilts my bulge.”

“Hold on, KK. Don’t panic yet. We can’t be the only ship out at sea. The drone may be circling the area and if we’re pailing at the moment it visits, it may hold off. Maybe.” The Psionic scans the room, as if your solution has dropped behind the daybed. He looks at the window curtains and rips them down. “Got it!” He holds it up to your face. “Put this on.”

“A… _blindfold_?” you mutter.

“It might work.” The Psionic says, tying the blindfold on. “Some trolls have to be tied up or spanked in order to pail. You might do better with a blindfold.”

“I feel foolish.”

“Relax. Lay back and don’t even think of me being here. Just…enjoy yourself.”

“Pollux, I don’t know. I don’t like this.”

The Psionic shushes you and you feel his hand slide around your waist. He strokes your bulge and you inhale sharply. He kisses you gently, shushing your fears. Soon you can’t hear the drone’s wail as it comes closer. You focus on the pailing session and your moirail really does work miracles.

Still, you can’t look at the pail once its filled. Its too embarrassing. You carry it to the deck and do your best not to look at it. On the deck, your followers are assembled and the imperial drone is standing there, buzzing and clicking musically. Its a tall creature with a black carapaced hide and no visible eyes. It looks like it could have been a troll and yet not. Its creepy in a way you can’t describe. The drone ignores your presence and continues taking pails and packing them into a larger cooler. To the left of it is a crumpled mess of blood and bone.

You can’t even tell if it was a troll. You look at Mother, who says,  “Someone who didn’t have his flush filled.”

This just got scarier. Your Disciple looks at you and gives you a hopeful smile. “The drone goes by smell and sound, not sight.” Mother whispers, standing behind you, “Keep calm, give it the bucket, and move on.”

Your Disciple, the Psionic, and you approach the drone together.

The drone, sensing movement, holds out its arms to take the buckets. The drone takes the buckets and then looking at them. You hear a low sniffing noise, followed by a low droning hum and then rapid clicking. You look at the Psionic and your Disciple, who are just as confused as you.

“Kankri!” Mother calls, “ _Dodge_!”

You do dodge just as the drone reaches over, trying to take off your head. You whip out your sickle and knock away the drone’s other arm as it reaches for you. The drone screeches, dropping both buckets on the deck. They clatter loudly and splatter the deck. You do your best to avoid the slurry touching you. The drone howls and rushes toward you, sharp as knives. Its outer skin is tougher than a cholerbear and a shadowdropper combined. The Psionic hits it with psionic shocks but its undeterred and out for your blood.

“What’s wrong? I gave it the foul bucket!” you yell to Mother.

“I don’t know!” Mother calls, “Pollux! Toss the pail cooler into the sea!”

While you’re avoiding the massive claws of a pissed off imperial drone, the Psionic focuses on the giant cooler. He lifts it into the air and with the strain of an athlete throwing a discus, flings it into the ocean. Immediately the imperial drone whirls its head and bolts across the deck. Wings lift from its back and it flies in direction of the cooler.

Mother grabs you. You’re winded and you still can’t rest. “Everyone into the ship! Bolt the door and pull the shutters down!”

You all rush inside of the ship, doing as the older jadeblood commands. You abandon the buckets and the dead troll. You help the others pull the metal shutters over the windows. They were made for when the ship went underwater or for ship-to-ship assaults.

Inside, you look at mother. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure. A drone only has two things on its mind at all times: protecting the Mother Grub and collecting filial pails.” Mother mutters. She thinks hard and then says, “However, a drone must scrutinize what genetic materials it receives. An imperial order—one from the Empress—can change what genetic candidates the drone automatically rejects. The last time there was an imperial order, it was for the drones not to cull yellowblood mutants. But if there was an imperial order to cull anyone with bright red mutant genetics…”

“Those _bastards_.” snarls your Disciple, “This was a trap they knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid.”

“We have to do _something_.” says the Psionic. You hear the cry of the imperial drone. “I think our friend has returned.”

“We have to kill it.” says Mother, “There’s no other option.”

“But the other drones will be after us if we do so.” you say.

“We cut the drone’s body into pieces and dump it into the sea,” says Mother, “The other drones will look for its parts and evidence of destruction before they come after us. That will keep them busy for a few bilunar perigees or so. In the meanwhile we can move underwater. Imperial drones are not amphibious and they have other pails to collect. They’ll have one drone patrolling the seas to see if we surface until the end of pailing season.”

“Are you suggesting that we stay underwater for _all_ of pail season?” mutters a man.

“How long is that?” asks your Disciple.  

“Fifteen bilunar perigees. Four weeks.” You mutter, “We’ll have to ration our supplies and stay constantly on the move.”

“We can make for the gamblignant islands in the southeast,” suggests a woman, “they’re lawless and won’t care if there are more outlaws amongst them.”

“This is so fucking _stupid_ and all my fault.” You shake your head and look at your followers. “This is my mistake. I can’t ask the rest of you to be a part of this. You should leave.”

One of your followers steps forward, shaking their head, “What disciples would we be if we turned additional beast-frond at the first sign of danger? We shall follow you until our deaths, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’...” You say, quietly.

There is a loud banging on the door. The drone is determined to break in.

“We can’t let it in. It might wreck the ship and prevent our escape.” says Mother.

“Then we’ll stop it before it gets in.” You look at the Psionic. “I’ll need your help. My weapons are close range not far. I’ll need your help too, Mother. You’ve killed one of these things before.”

“I’m helping too!” says your Disciple.

“No.” You touch her shoulder. “If I don’t’ make it, you have to dive the ship with the Psionic and the others. You must continue my work after I am gone.”

Her bottom lip trembles but she nods. You kiss her on the forehead and look at the others. “Get out of here and seal the hall door behind you. If I do not make it, I pass my positions and admirations onto my Disciple. Honor her as you would me. Now go.”

The others scurry out of the block. Your Disciple gives you one last look before she shuts the door. The outside door is denting from the drone constantly ramming it. A few more hits and it’ll give way.

“What do we have for weapons?” you ask.

“I have my shuriken but only five.” The Psionic says.

“That won’t do the trick unless you get a lucky shot.” Mother hefts her rag-ripper and pulls the chain. Its small engine rumbles to life and the troll-horn blades start spinning. “Let me at it first. I’ve wanted to tear into these _things_ since I first saw them.”

Your Mother is the bravest troll in the galaxy.

“Pollux, open the door. I’ll go in last. The drone will charge after me.” you say. 

The Psionic nods and stands behind Mother. You clutch your sickle and consider praying. Then you remember that you don’t believe in any gods or the Mirthful Messiahs. You only owe loyalty to the laws of probability.

The Psionic lifts the door latch. The imperial drone bursts in, shrieking, only to have its midriff slashed by Mother’s rag-ripper. The creature screams and retreats but you see shards of troll-horn clatter on the ground. One slash and three rag-ripper teeth have broken off. You can’t even see scratches on the drone’s hard carapace. You walk out on to the deck of the ship, now streaked with color from your abandoned filial pails. You try to avoid stepping in the slick genetic fluids.

The Psionic tries shocking the imperial drone but it shrugs it off. Its carapace body must be insulated against psionics. Mother goes after the drone but it knocks her away. It drives after you, claws outstretched. You back away from it, holding up your sickle. You strike one of its hands and a vibration goes through you from the impact. You discovered the hardest part of the creature. Its other claw digs into your arm, tearing away the skin. You scream and try to get away, but then you see a blurry shadow coming toward the creature. It’s a filial pail splattered with colorful slurry. Your stomach turns at the sight of it. The floating filial pail hits the drone in the face.

The drone snarls, turning its head. The floating filial pail rams over its head. Its horns puncture the bottom of the bucket.

The Psionic snickers. “I got more where that came from, you ugly fucker!”

You shield yourself from the leftover slurry droplets dripping from the pail. “Ah! What the hell are you doing, Pollux?”

“Improvising!” pants the Psionic.

The drone is howling in anger, trying to get the filial bucket off its head. This is horribly obscene. You’d feel bad for the drone if it wasn’t trying to kill you.

“Kankri! Remember what I told you!” Mother calls, getting to her feet.

“Right!” You look at the carapace plates on the drone’s body and see the half-inch of space between the plates on its throat. Your charge the beast, leaping and holding onto its left shoulder. The beast sinks its claws into your back as you ram the sickle into the throat gap. Ice cold black blood spurts out. The drone is screaming but you force the blade in deeper. When it won’t go any further, you want it out—taking pieces of an unknown organ with you.

Mother moves in with her rag-ripper, shoving it into the gap where the drone’s frond joins its hip. The drone screams and collapses on the ground, twitching and bleeding. You’re still not done. Mother carves the drone into tiny pieces, ignoring the chilled blood splashing on her. When she is done, the drone is in pieces, her rag ripper is destroyed, and she looks livid and washed with the creature’s inky blood.

You’ve done the impossible. You killed an imperial drone.

Mother reaches into the carcass of the drone and pulls out a still beating lump, no bigger than her hand. She approaches you, clutching it. “Always eat what you kill,” She says. “and today you’ve killed a _true_ monster.”

What happened to Mother in the brood caverns? What had turned her so bitter and angry towards the imperial drones?  Even if you asked her, you doubt she’d give tell you the truth. You take the drone’s heart and bite into it. Its like biting into a fleshy ice-cube and makes your gums tingle.

“We have to go now.” the Psionic tugs your hand, “They’ll be here soon.”

You nod, still silent and mouth streaked with black blood that tastes of the hemocaste blended together. You descend into the ship, vascular pump thundering.

 

Far off, someone calls, “Karkat?”

Is that you? Are you Karkat or are you Kankri? You can’t tell anymore. Everything aches and you just want to sleep.


	5. underneath it all

The daymares won’t stop. In the submerged ship, you are all strong for the first week but at the end of the second, there’s a near mutiny born from panic. You’re not used to such claustrophobia, silence, and darkness of being underwater. The fear of starvation and being hunted down pervades over all of you. At the end of the first week, you now make sure to keep the rations under lock and key. Out of all of you, the Psionic is in the worst condition; staying in the cockpit for long periods of time to keep the ship moving. You spend most of your time in your recuperacoon, resting in stale sopor and ignoring your hunger pains.

At the end of the third week, you discover there is little food left. When you gather the others and tell them, two step forward to donate themselves to the cause. You almost balk at the idea but then you look at the gaunt faces of the others and realize a sacrifice must be made. You thank the two volunteers and cull them yourself. The burden should be yours alone. Their meat is stringy but it will fill your digestive sacks. You pickle, preserve, and dry as much as you can.

Four weeks in you are skin and bones. The others try to share their rations with you but you refuse. They figured out in the third week that you’ve been sacrificing meals for them. You have stopped sleeping entirely. You cannot describe the daymares but you feel the lasting pain on your body. The scalding on your wrists is the most awful, lingering sensation. You feel a dissonance between yourself and the Signless One. History will remember the Signless and how he suffered for all the oppressed, but it will forget you as a troll.

They will deify you and your causes but forget your trollmanity, and knowing that truth hurts worse than any pain. You don’t want to be a deity. If you weren’t so dangerously important, you wouldn’t be at the bottom of the ocean slowly starving and craving fresh food and moonlight.

The fourth week passes and the sky lightens. It is the fourth dim season and pailing season is over. The drones have returned to guard the Mother Grub’s catacombs and her attending broodmas. The ship surfaces in the southeast isles, rampant with gamblignancy and violence. It slides onto the sands because that’s all the Psionic can do before he blacks out. You know he blacks out because the roar of the ship engine suddenly cuts out.

You can’t even leave your recuperacoon to help him. The slime is in gelatinous chunks pooled around your waist. Over and over again you see your doom approaching: a massive gamblignant ship decked out in jewels and elegance, commanded by a firebrand cerulean and a dour violetblood. They will see your immobile ship, the followers, and then make their attack. They will capture the Psionic first, then Mother. They will find your Disciple but not you, as she tried to hide you. You will crawl out of your hiding spot and give yourself up. You do not want to be separate from your doomed family. They will take you to the Imperial City and there, you will meet your end. Or you assume so. The daymares become fuzzy after the tortures.

You know that you will meet your end soon.

Your followers help move you out of the recuperacoon and clean you up so you’re slightly more presentable. They’re all weak and exhausted, but still dedicated to you. Outside on the island, they’re cheerful. They’re still weak but assemble a piecemeal picnic from fruit and vegetables. The daymares have weakened you more than the near starvation, so your Disciple has to attend to your needs. She drips coconut milk into your mouth.

“Kankri, you have to sleep.” your Disciple says, “You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine….” You whisper, “Just stay. Simham, please stay. They’re coming and I can’t…protect you…”

You feel on the verge of tears as you hold her hand. Your Disciple strokes your sweaty forehead, humming a song. You hold onto her, knowing this will be the last time you shall be close. You’d tell Mother and the others about the danger coming, but you don’t want them to spend their last moment trying to protect you. You let them enjoy the fresh air and the cry of sea-spleenfowl. You enjoy the hum of conversation and the relief of surviving the tumultuous equinox under the ocean. Sleep drags you down.

Times drains from you and your memories blur into a polychromatic mayhem and noise of all that is, was, and shall be. You open your eyes and see the dried wall. You push through it and fresh air hits your face. Your vision is blurred and you cough up a green and red dappled slime.

 

 

You’re awake.


	6. wake up

**== >Karkat: Be reborn**

 

The air is musty with old sopor and your skin is crusted over with dried fluids. The floor is slippery with pink and lime green, the broken cocoon filled with similar fluids. You shake your head and rain down dried lime flecks. You scrub some of the crust off your face, throat and chest. You cough and look at your shirt, nearly dissolved by the cocoon’s fluids. You yank it off since it itches. Your eyesight is different now; sharper and more sensitive to light sources.

The door opens and Dave walks in. “Hey, Karkat, you still…” He pauses and stares at you. “ _Whoa._ ”

You scrub the corner of your eyes and look at him. “What’s wrong?” you say, but then you’re startled by how deep your voice has become.

“…nothing.” Dave says still staring.

You tug a hunk of hardened silk off your arm and slowly stand. Your limbs are all on pins and needles after being unused for so long.

Jade walks in, “Hey, whose voice is that? Is that—” She stops and stares at you. “Oh, wow.”

“I wish someone would tell me what’s going on. Fuck, I feel light headed.”  You grunt, using the wall to support you. You leave sticky handprints on it.

“You may be hungry. You were in there since Sunday, and its Wednesday now.” Jade says, still not taking her eyes off of you.

“ _Feels_ like I’ve been in there that long.” You slowly move forward but you’re unsteady on your feet. You look at the height of the plants and the boxes in the room. “Did this room shrink?”

“No…” Dave mutters.

You walk closer to Dave and see you’re at equal height now. You look at him and Jade.  “Holy shit. I’m a _giant_.”

“Uh huh…” Dave mutters.

“Yeah,” Jade mumbles, “and your skin is…um…”

“What’s wrong with my skin?” you ask.

Both of them look away and you growl, making your way to the bathroom and leaving sticky footprints in the hall. In the mirror, your skin’s a confused patchwork. Your primary skin color is your grandfather’s but there are patches that look like Kankri’s spread all over your body. Its like your body couldn’t decide which color your adult skin should be and went all Paint-by-Numbers instead. At least your horns and eyes are normal.

 

 

“ _Jegus_.” You say.

“At least its not on your face?” Jade suggests, meaning the patches.  

“ _’At least its not on your face’_ she says!” you growl. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to see this shit in the mirror or when I get out the shower!” Jade picks up your hand and looks at the wrist. “What are _you_ doing, Harley?”

“Karkat, um…” Jade mutters, “…you have the manicula.”

“The fuck is the ‘manicula’?” The word sounds familiar though.

“The _manicula_. The Burning Manacles of Jegus Sufferer.” Jade says. “When the Sufferer was being tortured in his last days, the burning cuffs were upon his wrists. And then”—she taps a large star-shaped spot on your abdomen—“his torturer shot an arrow into his chest, finally ending his suffering. Then his Righteous Leggings were removed”—she points to the discoloration around your waist, thighs, and legs—“by the Disciple before she was deemed to be culled. Then the Starfall happened.”

The marks on your wrist do remind of where the cuffs were. You can even recall the searing pain of having the cuffs there. “Like I give a shit. I look like a freak.” You grumble.  

“You’re not anymore of a freak than any other troll, Karkat.” Jade says, gently.

You look around. “Wait, where’s Dave?”

Jade pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Huh. I don’t know. He was behind me in the hall. I guess he needed air.” She sees your face and adds, “You know he has trouble with…changes. This is a…big one. _I’m sure he’ll be fine!_ ” She adds that last one because your expression isn’t improving.

You grunt, not really believing her. Strider’s issues are something for Dirk and Jade to deal with. You have your own, like explaining this to Vriska. You doubt she’ll be happy about you looking like your grandfather with a skin condition. You’re still covered in a slick fluid so you take a shower. While you clean up, Jade cleans up your cocoon. What she doesn’t’ sweep up, Sonny Jr. and Bec eat. Jade’s less worried about Sonny Jr. than she is about Bec eating something so strange. So far, the barkfiend seems fine.

None of your clothes fit anymore so you have to borrow Jade’s shirt and pants, which are still a little small on you.

Jade also notices something unusual about your chest when you put her shirt on. “I wasn’t sure when I first saw you since you were still gooey and stuff, but...I think you have tits.”

You glare at her. “What?”

“Well, _look_.”

Jade pokes you in the chest which wobbles. You immediately cover it. “Don’t touch me there!”

“I’m just proving a point. You have breasts or heftsacks or rumble sphere or whatever you call it.”

“If you’re a troll they’re heftsacks and _I do not have them_!” you growl, leaving the bedroom. “I have other things to worry about anyways!”

Jade takes out her iHusk and starts texting. “Well for your skin, maybe John or Roxy have make-up you can wear when you go out.”

“Great. I’ll be more painted than a gross clown.” You sit on the couch, which creaks under your weight. “Are you messaging them now?”

“No. Kankri. He said he wanted to see how you were once you were done molting.” Jade says. “I’m going to go look for Dave. If he’s not upstairs, he may have gone to work.”

She’s been more anxious these days about Dave wandering away. You’re glad for the brief alone time when she leaves.

When Kankri arrives, he looks at you and his entire body shudders. “Oh. _Oh_ _my_. This is… _well_ …”

You glare at him and walk back inside, sitting on the couch. “Freakish?”

“No, Karkat. I didn’t mean that.” Kankri shuts the door and sits next to you. “I was just shocked to see how much you look like your father. I didn’t expect your skin to become so dark but perhaps it’s a result of your parentage. This may be a normal molting for someone in your genetic pool.”

You show Kankri the splotches on the palm and wrist. “Does _this_ look normal to you?” Kankri squints at it and tilts his head. “Why are you making _that_ face?”

“In high school, our biology textbooks spoke of genetic chimeras,” replies Kankri, “or a single organism composed of genetically distinct cells. In humans, this results in male and female organs, two different blood types, or variations of such. As you know, trolls are intersexual and are designed to not suffer from inbreeding depression or population bottleneck, which is dissimilar from humans. Humans must have genetic variation from other lines but trolls do not—”

“Is there a _point_ to this lecture?” you growl.

Kankri frowns. “I suspect this a result of a troll’s regular genetic chimerism made physically obvious. My generation’s skin color is lighter than that of our parents because of the lack of UV rays bombarding this planet and the intensity of heat. Your generation is even lighter, the natural shade you were born with, but troll skin darkens at adulthood. The only genes available to you were mine and my father’s. Your body could have only slightly darkened the skin but it went with another option.” He shrugs. “Biology isn’t perfect, Karkat. Sometimes these things happen. I’m only theorizing though. I’m no expert.” 

You remember the haze of dreams and reality blending during your molt. “Maybe I became this shade because I was confused?”

“Confused about what?”

“While I was molting, I had visions.” you say, “I was on Alternia, living my father’s life and having his experiences. I was so convinced I was him.”

“Oh _really_?” Kankri is skeptical, as always. “So how did father survive his capture? Where was he for nearly two decades? Everyone thought he was dead until during the Starfall he mysteriously appeared again.”

Normally you’d brush off Kankri’s skepticism but your head throbs. You’ve seen fragments of your father’s attempted execution, coupled with the hazy visions of afterwards… “There was an earthquake at his execution. I… _he_ was knocked unconscious. The Condesce knew Grandpa saw the future so she kept him alive in a…device that was like the Helmsman cockpit? That’s what it looked and felt like. All those little…tentacles. She kept me… _him_ …alive and pumped him for information about. She knew the Starfall was coming but…there was a problem.” You shake your head. “I can’t remember what, but it was a _big_ one.”

Kankri is silent. He stares at you for a minute, then looks away. He slowly inhales and exhales. “Maybe...” he says, “…maybe there is… _something_ to what you see. I only knew the vague details of Father’s escape from death but no one knew…for sure…why he…” He shakes his head. “What you say makes sense. Mother, the Condesce, was of questionable personality in her Imperial days.”

“But why can I remember so vividly and you can’t?”

“I don’t know, Karkat. I don’t know _everything_. But this…” Kankri touches your wrist, studies your palm. “You have to keep them _hidden_. People will flip the fuck out if they see the manicula on a mutantblood.” He stares at a splotch in the center of your palm, matching the one on the back of your head. “Odd.”

“What?”

Kankri touches the spot, “…Father had scars in the center of his hands. One of Darkleer’s tortures was to fire bolts through his palm. I wonder…it sounds so far-fetched but…could father’s memories be influencing you on a genetic level? Was your body… _copying_ his to accuracy? Most of father’s burn and injury scars had healed over or been patched but this is a mark from the older days…and some of these marks on you are…”

He trails off, his skepticism shaken by his own thoughts. This is too surreal and improbable for you to deal with so you take your hand from him. “Whatever. I’ll wear gloves. How’s Terezi?”

“She’s fine…um…” Kankri squints at your chest. “Karkat, do you have heftsacks?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest. “Fuck off.”

“Karkat, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Its probably a post-molt hormonal fluctuation.” Kankri sighs, using his obnoxious _I understand_ tone. “I mean we are an intersexual species. The only way we distinguish between male and female is what we wear and having heftsacks…”

Kankri touches your heftsacks and you smack his hand away. “What are you _doing_?!”

“I just wanted to see what the texture was like!”

You growl and cover your chest. “Do not determine the texture of my heftsacks with your _hands,_ you pervert!”

“It just makes me wonder…were we _wrong_ about your gender?”

You stare at him. _“_ What _.”_

“With some grubs its hard to tell the gender. Especially hard to tell on mutantbloods but…” He sees your face and stands. “I think I should go. I don’t like being far from Terezi. Let me know how things go.”

“Yeah. You should _go_.” You gesture to the door, knocking over the lamp next to you. You groan. You’re going to have to get used to your new arm length.

Kankri leaves you to sulk in the mobilehive. Getting around is miserable. You bump and knock over everything. You almost pull the kitchen door off the hinges. You also discover that you’re too big for the bed. Grumbling about your situation, you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror again. Your molt wasn’t gracious enough to make you skinny or give you abs. You still have flab around your middle and stomach but you’ve definitely lost weight.

The heftsacks are still troubling though. Why in the fuck do you have heftsacks? You can’t even discern what cup size they would be. _They’re temporary,_ you insist, _very_ very _temporary._ Tomorrow you’re going to Goodwill and getting a bigger shirt.

You get a spare blanket from the storage room and camp out on the couch for now. You nod off during some mindless cartoon and wake up when Dave comes through the door. “Hey.” You mumble, half awake.

Dave almost jumps two feet in the air. _“F-fuck!”_ He looks at you, startled. “Oh. Shit. Its you.” He hesitates, “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m too big for the bed now. This fucking sucks.” You grumble. “I hated being short but now I’m an inconvenient giant.”

Dave laughs but it sounds strained. “Yeah. You’re a real Goliath.”

You sit up suddenly and he shirks, stepping away from you. You look at him. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Dave says, wearing his Strider poker face, but he’s moving closer to the bedroom.

It dawns on you. “You’re… _scared_ of me.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Its because I’m not small anymore. I’m an adult and I’m… _intimidating,_ like an adult troll should be.”

“Its not that.” Dave reassures you and it almost sounds genuine. “I had a long day and this…it takes some getting used to seeing you. Like this. I’m going to be fine.” He repeats, quietly, “Its all going…to be fine.”

You don’t think he’s talking to you.

“Okay.” you say, knowing better.

It hurts to watch him leave but you feel separated from the pain, as if you’re watching the distant recorded on film. It hurts that he can’t be around you and yet, you understand. Dave is not a robot and not all romances are romcoms. Love can’t conquer the disquiet in his brain and you wouldn’t want him to pretend so. It was bound to happen sooner or later as relationships are not stagnant. They change subtly like the moonlit Alternian sky transitioning from the third dark season to the fourth dim season. Like a new storm subtly rolling in over the turbulent shores of the seaside city as the tide comes in, flooding whole districts owned by royals. Like the lines in the dry terrain of the sand-wastes leading you home. Like the unseen movement of stars, briefly obscured by meteor debris where your home was.

Everything shifts and changes.   

“I understand.” You say out loud, to no one. To nothing. To the dust in the air. To the ants in the floorboards. To the god that may or may not already be here. That may or may not exist.

He will always be here with you. The Signless was not a person. He is, was and will be.

“Thank you.” You whisper to your father, because he is still here.

He will always be here.  


End file.
